


Anywhere Out of the World

by kmo



Category: Where on Earth is Carmen Sandiego?
Genre: Backstory, Canon Character of Color, Case Fic, Gen, Pre-Canon, shameless San Francisco love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carmen's final case at ACME was also her most personal; to have a future, she must face her past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic of mine I completed about a year ago, reposted from fanfiction.net. You could consider it a companion piece to "No Second Troy," as it features some of the same themes and characters.

**Summary:** Carmen's final case at ACME was also her most personal. If she is to have a future, she must face her past.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned WOEICS, this would be canon and I would be a (somewhat?) wealthier woman.

**Author's Note:** While my story contains little violence or sexual innuendo, it is a slightly darker and more psychologically minded portrayal of the characters that might not appeal to everyone.

* * *

"Life is a hospital in which each patient is possessed by the desire to change beds. One wants to suffer in front of the stove and another believes that he will get well near the window. It always seems to me that I will be better off where I am not, and this question of moving is one that I discuss endlessly with my soul."

-  _Charles Baudelaire "_ _N'importe où hors du monde_ "  _(Anywhere Out of the World)_

* * *

_Japanese Tea Garden, San Francisco_   _circa 1985_

Carmen had never noticed it before, but the tea ceremony was kind of a drag.

She corrected her frown and plastered a placid expression on her face, murmuring niceties in Japanese as she accepted the delicate porcelain cup from the  _teishu_ , or tea master. Normally, the ritual calmed and transported her, but today it took every ounce of zen training she possessed not to fidget or yawn. She would have liked to have slept in, but Suhara had asked her to come. Other invitations she could (and did) brush off, but when her mentor and former partner called, she came. She looked at her old friend, sipping his bitter green _matcha_  and clearly relishing the peace that so eluded her. Carmen quickly turned away lest the ever-observant Suhara notice the bluish mark on her right cheek she had hastily camouflaged with foundation earlier this morning. She longed to be outside, or at least put her hat back on.

At last, the prolonged tedium was over. A yukata-clad apprentice began to play a folk song for them on her  _koto_ , but Suhara softly asked her to leave them alone. " _Domo arigatou gozaimasu. Kedo, hitori-de, tomodatchi to hanashitai n desu. Sumeimasen."_

The girl, about the same age as Carmen herself, blushed and excused herself.  _"Totemo tanoshikatta_ , _"_  Carmen called after her as she exited the room. Even if the ceremony was not indeed a pleasure, it was not the fault of the apprentice.

"A beautiful ceremony, was it not, Carmen-chan?" her partner said.

"Mm."

"Tell me what did you think of the  _teishu's_  blue kimono?  _Utsukushii_ , ne?"

"Yes, very beautiful," the girl detective automatically responded.

"Carmen, her kimono was pink, not blue. It matched the  _sakura_  pattern on the tea cups and the blossom-shaped  _okashi_ sweets we ate," her mentor spoke sharply. "I am disappointed. It is not like you to be so unobservant."

Carmen gave her best impression of an insolent youthful shrug and re-fixed her fedora upon her head. "I'm fine," she lied.

Suhara shook his head and spoke slowly and deliberately. "No, you're not. It does not take great powers of deductive reasoning to see that you have been restless and unhappy as of late. I am asking as your friend and teacher, please tell me what is wrong."

_Ah, but am I unhappy because I am restless or restless because I am unhappy? Riddle me that, Suhara sensei,_ Carmen thought but did not voice aloud. Instead she said, "I can't stand to be cooped up in here any longer. Care for a stroll?" Her companion agreed and they left the calm of the tea house and ventured into the garden beyond.

It was a beautiful April afternoon, warm and serene. The cherry blossoms bloomed around them, their pink flowers matching perfectly with the bright paint of the shrine and even the orange-red  _koi_  in the pond at her feet. Like the tea ceremony, San Francisco's Japanese garden had also once brought Carmen great pleasure. As a child, she would come here and feel like she had gone to a new and exotic place, all without ever leaving her hometown. It was about as close to international travel as a ward of the state could get. But years of jet-setting around the world chasing crooks had made this corner of Golden Gate Park seem small and tame by comparison. Today, its ordered beauty- a hallmark of Japanese culture she usually admired- felt especially oppressive.

Normally, Suhara did not require constant conversation and was happy to leave her to her thoughts; it was one of the things Carmen had always liked about having him as a partner. He knew she would speak her mind when she had something to say. But it seemed her silence had exhausted even Suhara's bountiful supply of patience this afternoon. He inquired, "I hear you turned down the instructor position at ACME Paris. That would have been a nice change for you, no?"

Carmen gave a small laugh. "I don't think I'm ready to be a teacher, sensei. Maybe someday. But right now I lack your patience."

Her mentor laughed as well. "Yes, well. That is likely true." He paused. "There have been rumors of promoting you to Inspector. You would be the youngest in the Agency's history. Quite an honor."

"Half-way to retirement at the ripe old age of twenty? An honor for some, but not for me," she replied tartly.

"Well, if you are bored at ACME, Carmen-chan, you could work someplace else. I would hate to lose you, but I know you need interesting cases. Is it true the CIA has come calling?" he asked.

"Suhara, they have all come calling. The CIA, the FBI, Scotland Yard, Interpol, the KGB…" Her mentor's eyes went wide at the last. "You needn't worry. I turned them all down."

"But if it is challenges you are looking for, the CIA would surely…"

"I have no desire to risk my life as a pawn in a game of  _realpolitik_ ," Carmen cut him off abruptly. The CIA recruiter had made an idealistic and shallow appeal to her patriotism, which failed; she had spent so much time moving around the globe the past few years she hardly felt like a citizen of any nation, much less the United States. The KGB at least had the decency to talk up the unique challenge of life as a double agent. Someone had done their homework there. It was almost tempting.

"Well and so. But why not the Bureau? With your skills, I'm sure you'd become a rising star in no time. And they don't lack for cases." While Suhara had started out calm, Carmen now detected a distinct note of worry in his voice.

"A lifetime spent wire-tapping mobsters or hunting serial killers has little appeal for me. Just because their criminals are more dangerous, it does not mean they are more challenging," she stated knowingly. Out of the corner of her eye, Carmen saw her former partner wince and felt a little guilty. She knew he disliked it when she talked of criminals in terms of the challenges they posed for  _her_ , instead of the dangers they posed to society.

"So," the older man eyed her quizzically, "you will stay at ACME until some brilliant master thief comes along to dazzle you?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Carmen sighed. They had reached the edge of park, and she could glimpse the grey slate roof of the Golden Gate Girls' School peeking through the leafy trees. Her chest grew tight and she found it hard to breathe as she looked at her former home; the orphanage had once been her entire world, a very small one.

Suhara followed her gaze and gently touched her elbow. "Well, you know there is still one case left for you to solve."

Carmen blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Surely, you have been tempted to investigate your own mysterious past. And now you have the time and the skills to do it properly."

"Perhaps I have better things to do."

Anger sparked in her teacher's normally calm eyes.  _Beware the fury of a patient man_ , the matron at the orphanage had always warned her. "Like squander your evenings in the seedier parts of our city? People say they've seen you out at all hours in the Castro…the Tenderloin…getting into fights, thrown out of bars, consorting with all sorts of shady characters…." He threw up his hands in disgust.

"I had no idea my comings and goings were the subject of such idle chatter. Are we ACME detectives or sorority sisters?" Carmen quipped dryly.

"Do not joke with me, Carmen. Is that how you came by the bruise that you have been trying to hide from me all afternoon?" He reached out to stroke her cheek and the young woman flinched at the contact. It still ached a little.

"What I do on my own time is my business. I think I'm entitled to a little fun, don't you?"

"If only I believed you were merely out sowing your wild oats, I would not be so worried." Suhara's eyes brimmed with concern. "Is it danger that you seek? Or escape?"

Carmen said nothing. Her heart pounded in her chest, pulsing red.  _Both_.

He patted her back in a soothing way. "Carmen, the time has come. You have put this case off for too long, I think."

The young detective could barely meet her mentor's eyes. "And what if I fail? What then?"

Suhara regarded her with heart-breaking sympathy. "You are the finest student I have ever taught, the best detective our agency has ever produced. If you do not succeed, it will not be because the case is unsolvable. It will be because you didn't want to."

Carmen pulled away, closing herself off. "And what is that supposed to mean?" she asked, hurt and offended.

Suhara shook his head sadly. "I do not think you fear failure. I think you fear the truth, Carmen-chan."

Carmen clutched at the locket around her neck like a talisman. There was a lifetime of wondering and longing, of being torn between knowing and not-knowing, in that simple gesture. Some days she felt the torturous ambivalence coursing through her veins like a poison, eating her alive from the inside out.  _This has to stop_. "You are a wise man, sensei. I'll…try to solve this case."

"Good.  _Gonbatte, ne_." He smiled then added solemnly, "Because if you run from your past now, my friend, I fear you will run from it for the rest of your life."

Carmen nodded.  _I fear it, too_. "Don't worry about me. I can handle myself." She gave him a rare and impulsive hug.

"So you tell me, Carmen-chan. But sometimes I am not so sure," he whispered into her hair.

* * *

**Author's Translatascan:**  In case anyone was curious, Suhara tells the apprentice "Thank you very much. I'm sorry but I'd like to speak to my friend alone."  _Utsukushii_ means beautiful. And _gonbatte_  literally translated is "try your best" but most people use it to mean "good luck."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** There is a bit of mild cursing in this chapter. All resemblances to cop drama cliches are purely intentional.

* * *

_Some weeks later_

Today Carmen had learned an important lesson. She would never go broke underestimating the San Francisco Police Department's capacity for shoddy police work or garden variety racism. Both, she discovered, had helped decide her fate at the tender age of two.

She began her investigation with her best lead- herself- and spent days traipsing back and forth between the closed stacks of the Child and Family Services office and the records department in the basement of police headquarters. Many hours and several cheap cups of coffee later, she had obtained the original police report written by the beat cop who had found her wandering the streets of San Francisco as a toddler. Carmen would have liked to have questioned him, but sadly, he had been killed in the line of duty during a liquor store robbery ten years ago. The detective assigned to her case, a Mike O'Leary, was still alive and living in the city. He also had an Internal Affairs file as thick as her forearm.

Carmen found Detective O'Leary deeply engrossed in the sports pages behind a desk piled high with unfinished paperwork. He was a stocky man with graying chestnut hair, paunch layered over a once athletic frame. His overall appearance was one of a good cop that had gone to seed, marking time until he could collect his generous police pension and retire to seaside Monterrey or Santa Cruz. Carmen had unfortunately seen his type many times before. It was not a good sign.

Carmen coughed and politely interrupted. "Excuse me, Detective. I understand you were the lead investigator on a child abandonment case here eighteen years ago."

O'Leary reluctantly lowered his newspaper and grumbled. "I investigated a lot of cases, Miss…"

"Detective Sandiego," Carmen introduced herself and flashed her badge. She took a certain amount of pleasure in watching O'Leary squirm in surprise.

"Well, if it isn't ACME's famous girl detective. Yeah, I remember you. Come a long way from where they found you down by the waterfront." He rubbed the stubble on his chin. "So I take it you're lookin' for your folks?"

Carmen hated that her motives were so transparent. "Yes, I was hoping you could walk me through what happened after Officer Williams brought me to the station. It says in the report I was only speaking Spanish when I arrived." It had been news to Carmen that Spanish was her first language. No one at the orphanage had ever told her; then again, she had never asked.

"Yeah, and a helluva time we had trying to understand you, too. All we could make out was your name, which we were pretty sure was Carmen…or something like it…and the words San Diego, like the city. So we contacted the boys at San Diego PD, thinking maybe you had people down there." He puffed up as if he thought this was some brilliant deduction. "But your description didn't match any missing children there or in the whole state of California. And nobody came for you, so we sent you to the Girls' School."

Carmen winced inwardly; it hurt to be reminded that her name…her whole identity…was based on something so arbitrary as what this man thought he heard one night eighteen years ago. "And no one at the station spoke Spanish? You couldn't have called an interpreter?" she asked, hearing the anger rise in her voice.

"Not a lot of…diversity... on the force back in those days. Only had one interpreter and she was down in the Mission dealing with a gang thing. Budget cuts," he explained with a shrug.

Carmen gritted her teeth and fought the unfamiliar urge to throttle O'Leary by his greasy necktie. "And you didn't think to follow up on this case? You just left me there. Case closed."

O'Leary began to get a little hot around the collar himself. "Listen, missy…"

"Detective Sandiego," she corrected sharply.

"Detective. I don't know how it is nowadays, but back then we had hippies dropping acid and walking off rooftops in the Haight, college punks out burning their draft cards- a lot more to worry about then some lost kid." He coughed and gave her a look that was both irritated and oddly sympathetic. "And if you don't mind me sayin' so, it was no great mystery what had happened to you. It might have been for the best, you going to that orphanage. Your kind, I seen it plenty."

Carmen was slow to catch on to what the veteran detective was implying.  _Oh_. She knew racism existed in an intellectual sense, but had never before felt it directed toward her. Well, she had dark hair and a vowel at the end of her name. Case closed indeed. "So, I was just another Mexican brat to you? Probably here illegally and hardly worthy of further investigation," she spoke, her voice deadly quiet.

O'Leary turned beet-red and shifted uncomfortably. "Now listen, I didn't mean…"

Carmen leaned over and planted both her hands on the cluttered desk, forcing the older man to scoot back in his chair. "No, you listen to me. Internal Affairs thinks you are on the take, a dirty  _hijo de puta_ cop. But you know what I think?" she breathed dangerously. "I think you are something worse- a lazy one. Because if you hadn't done such a half-assed job, _pendejo_ , I might have been reunited with my family, instead of spending twelve years of my life in a state-run orphanage."

Leaving O'Leary sputtering, Carmen strode away, ignoring the suspicious glances of the rest of the station. As she left, she called back with a self-satisfied smirk, "And if you don't know what some of those words meant, Detective, I suggest you look them up. Trust me when I tell you they describe you perfectly."

* * *

Carmen returned to her office, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the doorframe and dislodge a few of her many awards from the walls. Since the meeting with O'Leary, she had been suffused with a kind of righteous anger, the type that made her want to put her fist through a plate glass window or punt office supplies across the room. Though she possessed the self-restraint to refrain from both impulses, her rage frightened her. It was not like her to slam doors or curse out fellow detectives in Spanish.

Not for the first time, Carmen wondered if this particular case would be better off in the hands of someone who could be impartial and objective. Someone who, unlike her, had no investment its outcome.

Dreamily, Carmen removed her worn brown leather gloves and slowly rolled up the sleeves of her Oxford shirt. She studied her palms and wrists, where familiar splotchy red scars marked her otherwise flawless skin. Where they came from, she had no recollection. Carmen didn't wear gloves out of vanity. She just hated the daily reminder of…unknowingness…the scars represented. She had asked the ACME medical examiner about them once; second degree burns, he had told her. He did not say if they were self-inflicted….or otherwise.

_It might have been for the best, you going to that orphanage._  The burns had been in the police report. For all his bigoted incompetence, it galled her that O'Leary might have actually had a point. What kind of people let their two year old daughter roam the streets? Or acquire severe burns? She felt faint at the thought and reached out steady herself, taking comfort in the cold, hard embrace of the metal file cabinet.

There were really only two ways this investigation could end, Carmen knew.

In the first scenario, she would discover her parents were dead. That knowledge would bring, in a way, some kind of blessed closure to her life. Maybe she would actually be able to "move on" or whatever that meant. But closure came with a price; she would never, ever know her parents. Never feel her father's arms around her or hear her mother's voice. Sometimes she wondered if the loss of that hope was a price she was willing to pay.

The alternate scenario appealed to her even less. The one where, by some quirk of fate and deductive brilliance, Carmen discovered her family was still alive. Were parents who had abandoned her really parents worth having? To be faced with the revolting prospect that they disowned her not out of poverty or hardship, but because they simply did not  _want_  her rippled the fault lines of her soul. Did she display some fatal flaw that caused them to reject her? The unanswered question had lain imbedded in her psyche since childhood, a chronic disease nipping at her heart year after year.

Suddenly feeling claustrophobic and sick, Carmen went to the window and opened it. The fresh air kissed her cheek, but did little to revive her, as sweat dripped down her neck and back. In the courtyard below, she watched ACME's forensic psychologist, Dr. David Kaplan, greet his wife and children on a fine spring afternoon. With effortless joy, the doctor scooped a small blond boy onto his shoulders and ruffled the hair of his copper-headed daughter. Whatever the outcome of her investigation, this she would never know.

As she stepped away from the window, Carmen felt choked by equal parts rage and despair, drowning in a roiling tide of red, as the cold tile floor came up to meet her.

* * *

**Author's Translatascan:** To borrow a page from Carmen, if you want to know what names she's calling O'Leary, I suggest you look them up. ;)

 


	3. Chapter 3

The cool metal hand of the Chief on her brow was what finally roused her. As the world came back into focus, she saw his steel eyebrows askew in panic. "Carmen! What happened? Why are you on the floor? Are you sick? Do you want me to get a doctor?" He peppered questions at her with the speed of a Gatling gun.

The well-oiled machine of her brain felt like it was packed with cotton. What happened….Carmen didn't want to say. She sat up slowly, her head still reeling. "I…I think I fainted. I skipped lunch." She  _had_  fainted, but knew it had little to do with missed meals. "Don't get a doctor. A glass of water would be nice."

The Chief continued to fret over her, an anxious mother hen. "I don't know. You should get checked out. I think Dr. Kaplan is still here…"

" _No_ ," she spoke sharply. "No doctors. And besides, Kaplan isn't even a medical doctor. He's a psychologist, Chief."  _And the person most likely to recognize that I just experienced a textbook panic attack straight out of the DSM-III._

The Chief looked wounded, but mumbled, "I'll go to the cafeteria and get you something to eat. Take it easy." God, it killed her to lie to him.

Carmen gingerly climbed into her desk chair and tried to gauge how long she had been unconscious. The sun seemed lower in the sky, so…awhile. She rested her head in her hands and fought the sudden urge to cry. Why did it feel like the world was spinning out of control?

The Chief returned in minutes with what looked like half the contents of the ACME cafeteria. She gulped the water gratefully and took a bite of a sandwich, turkey on rye, which actually did make her feel a little better. The Chief watched her like a hawk; Carmen had the nagging suspicion he would not be satisfied until she had eaten something from every food group. She brushed his concern aside with a studied nonchalance; "It was just a low blood sugar thing, Chief. It's nothing."

He sat down clumsily opposite her with a loud clank and nodded slightly. "Okay. You need to take better care of yourself, Carmen." For an artificial intelligence, the Chief possessed some remarkably human behaviors at times. Because Carmen had the distinct feeling the Chief knew she was lying, but would rather believe her lies than accept whatever the dark truth might be.

After a series of pregnant pauses, punctuated by chewing, the Chief asked, "How did it go down at the station?"

Carmen set down her sandwich in disgust; the thought of O'Leary put her off her lunch. "Not good. Not good at all." She gave him a brief synopsis of her interview with the older detective, leaving out the Spanish expletives.

The Chief's mechanical jaw dropped. "But that's horrible! Someone should report him."

Carmen just shook her head. "I know. Maybe I will when it's all over." She frowned, dejected. "So, that's a dead end."

"But there are other avenues you can pursue. Like your locket," the Chief prompted encouragingly.

Carmen didn't like to tell people about her mysterious locket; so far, the Chief and Suhara were the only two who knew about it. "Yes, the locket," she removed it and looped its chain around the end of a long finger, the imperceptible motion of her hands swinging it like a pendulum. "I've gotten nowhere with the picture. It's not signed by the artist and there's no name or dedication on the back of the portrait. The locket itself is another dead end…it seems to have been mass-produced. I've taken it to every jeweler and department store in San Francisco and no one recognized it."

"I could help," the Chief piped up with the eagerness of a younger sibling. Or a boy with a crush; Carmen could never really tell. "I have lots of information in my data banks and can network with other databases around the world. And my sensors are state of the art," he preened.

Feeling guilty about lying to him earlier, Carmen just couldn't say no. "Okay, Chief. What can you tell me?"

The Chief grasped the gold necklace in his mechanical hand, staring at it intently and examining it with his sensors. "Well, the locket itself is 24 karat gold. It has been embossed using a process consistent with factory production. The necklace consists of a chain of pearls. It's impossible to tell from the naked eye, but they are natural pearls, not cultured ones; the former are extraordinarily rare and worth mucho deneiro. This is a very expensive necklace. I would estimate its present value at well over $75,000 US dollars."

Carmen let out a low whistle; she had known her necklace wasn't cheap but had no idea it was worth that much. "Who would give something so extravagant to a child?" It was not a new question, but sometimes it helped her to think out loud.

"Someone rich. Rich enough that it didn't matter if she broke it or lost it."

"Yes, my first thought, too."

The Chief erupted in glee, "But that's wonderful, Carmen! You could have your own Daddy Warbucks, like Annie! Or a grand destiny…like King Arthur! He was orphaned and raised by strangers, too."

Carmen gave a half-hearted laugh. "Me, some lost princess in a fairy-tale? Really, Chief." She paused. "But there is another possibility."

"What?"

"The locket could be stolen. My mother or father could have stolen it and given it to me." Carmen mused with an ironic quirk, " _I_ could have stolen it."

The Chief sputtered and fluttered. "You a thief? Not in a million years!"

Carmen shrugged and leaned back in her chair. "You're assuming my parents were good people. Maybe they weren't. They could have been anyone, Chief. Maybe they were drug dealers. Or involved in organized crime, like a loan shark or a bookie, and took it as payment in kind." Her earlier conversation with O'Leary had raised some uncomfortable possibilities.

The Chief reluctantly took in what she had to say. She knew he was still holding to his theory that she was a long lost heiress of some kind. "Well, I can do a few more tests on it, run it through a few databases. If you'll trust me with it."

There were days that locket weighed around her neck like an anchor. Yet, Carmen had a hard time letting it go, even into the care of her closest friend. "Thanks, Chief. Check out burglary reports in the Bay Area from the early '60s, if you don't mind. And the pawn shop records, too."

"Yes, ma'am!" The Chief gave her a mock salute. "And what will you do now?" he asked softly.

Carmen swallowed and fumbled for the locket that suddenly wasn't there, suddenly feeling oddly bereft. "I need to talk to the matrons at the Golden Gate Girls' School, see if I said or did anything that might give a clue to who my parents were. It's my only lead right now."  _And a trip I am not looking forward to_.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Nearly a week later, Carmen still hadn't taken the $1.50 MUNI ride from ACME headquarters to her old home, the Golden Gate Girls' School. Somehow, she kept putting it off, filling her schedule with various tasks that she convinced herself were more important than finding her parents. This included getting her picture taken with the Mayor on Wednesday, speaking about "stranger danger" at a local elementary school on Thursday, and accepting an award at a Junior League luncheon on Friday.  _Madre de Dios_ , the Junior League; if she saw another cucumber sandwich again it would be too soon. In short, she procrastinated by doing the type of PR work the Agency had always pressured her to do, but which she normally avoided like the plague. She really,  _really_  did not want to go back to the orphanage.

It was the Chief, of course, who finally called her out on her behavior.

"Howdy, pardner! How's the case coming along?" He peered over her shoulder and caught Carmen half-way through a very challenging crossword puzzle in yesterday's  _Le Monde_. "Is the answer to  _vingt_ -across ' _postponement_?' Because, um, you're not working on the case."

Carmen just grimaced and looked away. "I'll get around to it."

"How about today? Doesn't seem to be much going on around here."

"We'll see," she replied cagily.

"Weeeeelll, while you've been busy socializing with San Francisco's upper crust- loved you in the tea dress last week, by the way. And the white gloves, very early Jackie O." Carmen rolled her eyes. "I've found our next lead!" The Chief proclaimed and dropped a folder onto her desk.

Carmen rifled through the pages with expert efficiency. The folder contained some old sales receipts and a black and white brochure from Harrods department store featuring a gold locket identical to her own. "The locket was from Harrods? The famous London landmark?"

"Righty-o, chap! Sold exclusively at Harrods. Still waiting to hear if they have any records of individual sales. I sent an image of your necklace with the portrait along to see if anyone recognized it. Shall we celebrate over tea and crumpets, milady?" The Chief inquired in his plummiest Oxbridge tone.

Carmen was stunned, but still wary.  _Me, British?_ "Well done, Chief. I'm impressed." He beamed. "But, it's been twenty years. It seems unlikely they would still have the records after all this time. Or, that someone from the jewelry department would still be working there. What about the burglary reports?"

"Why do you have to rain on my parade, Barbara Streisand? It's a  _lead_." The Chief twisted his features into a mechanical frown. "And well, a couple lockets were stolen…I've got to follow up. But, I give you landed gentry and you still think drug lords! I like my theory better." He crossed his arms with a note of superiority.

"Anything on the portrait?" Carmen asked, hopeful yet detached.

Now the Chief looked disappointed. He dropped the locket into Carmen's outstretched hand. "Zip. Zilch. Nada. I cross-checked it with thousands of paintings and artists, and there are no defining characteristics. Chemical analysis of the paints revealed nothing out of the ordinary. It's a fine example of mid-century portraiture, but that's all." He looked slightly sheepish. "I did run an analysis using the Crimenet's newest facial recognition software…still a few bugs…"

Carmen was curious. "Show me."

The Chief brought up a side-by-side comparison of the locket portrait and a picture of Carmen taken at last year's Christmas party on his viewscreen. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to find a photo of you  _without_ that hat of yours? Hard. People have spent less time looking for Jimmy Hoffa." Blue dots freckled across both pictures, illuminating key facial landmarks. The arch of the eyebrows, the length of the nose and the distance between the pupils were some of many points that the Chief highlighted in a glowing red. "You and this mystery lady have almost exact values for some of the more commonly measurable facial nodes."

"Meaning?"

"Other than you've both got great cheekbones? This woman could be a relative. But the software is still in the early stages. And as it is a painting and not an actual photograph, it's hardly an exact science." The Chief paused and looked sober, almost sad. "Carmen, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure."  _Since you will probably ask anyway._

"Do you really believe this woman is your mother?"

His question pierced her, a pinprick to an already wounded heart. Her first instinct was to lie and say "no." The truth made her feel vulnerable and naïve. "Yes….no…I don't know. Sometimes it's nice to have a mother to believe in."

The Chief intertwined his mechanical hand with her fleshy one. "Well, if that's how you feel, you've got to go and find her, Carmen. You'll never find peace until you do," he spoke with utmost sincerity.

Moments like this, Carmen felt that the Chief was already a better human than she would ever be.

"Why don't you want to go to the orphanage? Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, no. I need to do this on my own. It's just…I haven't been back since I joined the Academy at fourteen." The thought of the place, its colorless grey curtains, the dreary rows of identical beds in the dormitory, quickened Carmen's heart in protest. She felt the walls of her office slowly close in as her body temperature seemingly climbed ten degrees.  _Not this again…_

"Were they mean to you there? Did they hurt you?" The Chief's bottom lip trembled.

"Of course not," she spat out, sharper than she intended. She fought to breathe slowly, remembering her Zen training, each breath its own hard-won battle. "I just didn't like who I was there…I was nobody, going nowhere in life."  _Alone, abandoned, and unwanted._

"But you're somebody now! Somebody special," the robot insisted.

"Special is one word for it," she muttered to herself as she felt her breathing return to normal. The Chief had a worried expression on his face that bordered on pity- something she refused to accept from anyone, robot or human. "I need some fresh air. I'll swing by the Girls' School while I'm out."

 


	5. Chapter 5

An hour later, Carmen found herself sitting in the head matron's office of the Golden Gate Girls' school. Her backside remembered its uncomfortable wooden chairs well from her tenure as a less- than-perfectly behaved orphan. Overall, not much had changed; Mrs. Sacrimoni's office still reeked of cheap potpourri and expensive cigarettes, the same faded  _Currier & Ives_ print still hung on the wall, and sitting in front of the matron's desk still made her nervous.

And then a petite Asian woman briskly swept into the room and planted herself across from her. "Alma Wong, Executive Director," she introduced herself in clipped tones. Apparently more had changed than Carmen had originally thought.

"I used to live here, Ms. Wong. I'm…"

"I know who you are, Detective Sandiego. What can I do for you?" Like many public servants, Ms. Wong wore the beleaguered look of someone who frequently had much to do and had neither the time nor the money to actually get it done.

"Where's Mrs. Sacrimoni? Can't I talk to her?" Carmen blurted out, oddly childlike.

Though she couldn't be much older than Carmen herself, Ms. Wong looked down on Carmen contemptuously. "Lucille Sacrimoni retired two years ago and is living with her son in Tucson. We sent you an invitation to her retirement party, but you didn't show," the other woman's spoke, her tone as sharp as the angles of her blunt-cut bobbed hair.

Carmen seemed to recall a crème-colored envelope arriving from the Girls' School, quickly lost accidentally-on-purpose in the shuffle of her busy life. "I was out of the country." Most likely, she was.

"I can give you her new address, if you like. Is there anything else? Because I really must be getting back to work."

"I'd appreciate that. But actually, yes, I was hoping you could help me." Carmen put on what she hoped was her most winning smile. "You see, I'm investigating my background…trying to find my parents. I was wondering if I could have a look at my file."

The new director looked back at her, blank and unyielding. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. The records are sealed."

It was all Carmen could do to keep from snarling. "I don't understand. The file is about  _me_. Aren't I entitled to information about myself?"

Alma Wong shook her head. "Not unless you come back with a court order from a judge. Or a FOIA."

Carmen spoke over a dozen languages, but FOIA wasn't a word in any of them. "What the hell is a  _foy-ah_?" she asked, exasperated.

The other woman raised a dark eyebrow at her mild cursing. "A FOIA is a Freedom of Information Act request that a citizen can use to get access to restricted state and federal documents. It can take a few months, but as the record pertains to you, it's likely your request would be approved." Sacrimoni's replacement gave a tiny shrug. "I'm sorry, these are the rules. I don't make them."

Many, many times over the years, the criminals she chased after had called her a "goody-two shoes." Next to Alma Wong, with her pin-straight hair and perfectly ironed suit, Carmen felt like a rogue. How to persuade this rigidly by-the-book bureaucrat? Her eyes drifted toward a framed diploma, the only new decoration that wall had seen in twenty years.  _Alma M. Wong,_   _Master of Social Work_ ,  _University of California-Berkeley_. The new director's youthful appearance made Carmen wonder if the ink was even dry on that thing.  _Hmmm_.

As a general rule, Carmen tended to avoid mental health professionals. They unnerved her. Especially ACME's in-house David Kaplan. Suhara and the Chief had recently become attuned to the fact that all was not well with ACME's star detective; Carmen suspected Kaplan had been onto her for years. His gentle blue eyes always seemed to see right through her, and his soft voice threatened to elicit all her secrets. She mentally pushed away these traitorous thoughts as one would swat an unusually persistent mosquito.

_Social Workers…more meddlesome than school counselors and less trouble than shrinks._

People generally became social workers out of a desire to help others. While Director Wong seemed overworked and underpaid, Carmen doubted she was actually heartless. Though the brilliant young woman preferred to deal in facts, reason, and the occasional intrigue, she knew there were times that only a genuine emotional appeal would do.

When the words finally came out, Carmen was stunned by how much she actually meant them.

"Ms. Wong, it has taken me a long time to get here…eighteen years, in fact. My job at ACME lets me run, and I've been running from my past for a long time. I understand if you can't let me see the file and I can come back with a court order. But honestly, I can't say for sure that if I leave here empty handed today, I won't just start running from this again." She paused and clutched her locket hard enough to feel the metal bite into her palm. "Please. If there is anything…anything at all you can tell me from the file that might give me a clue as to who my parents were, it would mean the world to me." When she finished, Carmen was surprised to find her eyes had glazed over with unshed tears.

Something flickered in the dark pools of the other woman's eyes and she bit her lip in a nervous gesture. "I..I can't give you the file, but I could look through it for you, bend the rules a bit." She gave a small smile. "Hold on." She rose and crossed to a file cabinet with a combination lock.  _23…8…15…_  Carmen couldn't help observing.

Director Wong returned with a thick file, the color of pea-soup, on which the words  _Sandiego, Carmen_  were neatly typed in the top left corner. It was a strange thing, to see the history of one's life assembled, catalogued, documented…and in the hands of someone else. "I'm very curious about when I first came to the orphanage. According to the police report, I didn't speak English. Was an interpreter ever called?" Carmen prompted.

Wong's dark eyes scanned the file. "You were brought here May 1, 1967, estimated to be two to three years old….with severe burns on your hands." The director's eyes narrowed in on her leather gloves as if she had X-ray vision, making Carmen feel self-conscious. "The police were not able to provide an interpreter, but Child and Family Services brought one here within the week….unfortunately, by then, you were no longer speaking. In fact, you didn't speak at all until approximately a year later when you started conversing in fluent English." She paused thoughtfully. "It's not atypical; this kind of behavior is consistent with trauma."

When the interpreter finally came she had stopped speaking. Carmen consciously felt her blood begin to boil.  _I am going to have O'Leary's shield for this. For lunch. With fries and a Coke._

Director Wong continued, a tone of unsolicited admiration creeping into her voice. "Mrs. Sacrimoni says here you were exceptionally clever, a prodigy. You were reading and writing by age three; your mathematical and linguistic capabilities were off the charts."

Carmen's genius was old news to her. She didn't want Wong's praise, just her information."Did I ever say anything about my parents or my family? Did anyone ever come for me?"

Wong flipped a few more pages and shook her head. "If you did, it's not in here. And no, they didn't. She does note that you were terrified of fire. Which makes sense, given the burns." Her manicured index finger tapped gently at a point of interest. "According to these reports, you ran away a lot."

The memory made Carmen smile. She frequently snuck out to Golden Gate Park, or went down to Fisherman's Wharf to gaze at lonely Alcatraz. Her little adventures had driven the matrons crazy. Once she made it all the way to Oakland before they even noticed she was gone. "Yes. 'Jailbreaks,' Mrs. Sacrimoni called them."

"Hmmm. And these escapes of yours usually coincided with visits from prospective parents." Alma Wong fixed her with a curious look.

Carmen had no desire to rise to that particular bait. Instead her mind honed in on something that had been bugging her since she arrived. The orphanage was oddly….quiet. Absent were the sounds of girlish laughter and youthful hijinx she remembered from her childhood. She nearly kicked herself for her lack of observation; Suhara was right, she was slipping. "Ms. Wong, where are all the girls?"

"The Golden Gate Girls' School is, as of last year, no longer a permanent residential institution. It's more of a halfway house now. Most of the girls have been moved on to foster homes while they wait for adoption."

"Why?" Carmen asked, feeling strangely defensive.

The young Ms. Wong's face clouded over with the familiar mixture of concern and pity that everyone seemed to have reserved for her lately. "To keep children institutionalized in a facility like an orphanage is considered...harmful…to their psychological well-being. Studies have been done. Children housed in orphanages…like the old Girls' School…frequently develop attachment disorders and can have difficulty forming emotional bonds." She paused and looked Carmen dead in the eye. "Even into adulthood."

Carmen said nothing, felt nothing. Her bright blue eyes took on a hard look, dark and unfathomable.

The young social worker paused for a moment and seemed to be weighing what to say next. "Detective…Carmen. You and I both know you had a difficult childhood. While I have the upmost confidence in your skills, no doubt this particular investigation has taken a bit of a personal toll on you." Her dark eyes, earlier so hard, now pleaded with her. "Given your past history of trauma, I would encourage you to seek the services of a professional. A counselor at your Agency, perhaps? Or I could recommend a colleague…"

"That won't be necessary, Ms. Wong. I think we're done for the day." Carmen pronounced tersely, effectively terminating the discussion. "Thank you for your time. I'm sure it will be no trouble to obtain a court order."  _And if for some reason it is, I just might come back in here and steal the file myself_ , she found herself thinking contemptuously.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful," Wong added, disappointed and cautious.

"Yes, well." Carmen tugged her fedora down lower over her eyes. She couldn't resist offering a parting shot, her voice dripping with elegant sarcasm. "And Ms. Wong, spare me your pity. I've grown up to become the greatest detective in the history of ACME and one of San Francisco's most beloved citizens. Your studies might apply to the average person, but Carmen Sandiego is several standard deviations away from the mean. Good day."

* * *

It was only three o'clock, but her interview with the orphanage director had left her so exhausted, Carmen found herself hailing a cab and directing the driver to take her home rather than back to the Agency. It hardly mattered lately whether she came in late, left early, or took a three hour lunch; it's not like there was anything for her to do.

Her mind was still reeling from her meeting at the orphanage when she arrived at her apartment in fashionable Russian Hill. Carmen had faced down Alma Wong with the bravado she normally reserved for criminal masterminds like Dr. Maelstrom. That she couldn't handle a tête à tête with a newly minted social worker without losing her trademark cool was nothing short of pathetic.

She checked the mail; bills, bills, junk mail, bills, and a postcard from a fellow agent working a case that involved industrial espionage in East Berlin. Carmen was stung by an irrational pang of jealousy. She'd give anything for a case right now….any case but this one.

She climbed the narrow wooden stairs with uncharacteristic slowness and wondered if she was indeed losing her touch, the part of her veterans like the Inspector called "natural police." At this point in a case, Carmen expected to sense the pieces falling into place. Her mind always ran with the precision and efficiency of a Swiss clock. Except now, it felt like someone had poured molasses into the works. She was unequivocally stuck. A Spanish speaking orphan…possibly Mexican…with burns on her hands...turns up in San Francisco wearing an outrageously expensive necklace from London's most famous department store. Which detail was more important- the locket or the burns? Was she a pampered princess or a victim of abuse?  _The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive_ , she reminded herself ruefully.

Carmen kicked off her shoes and flung down her satchel and notebook, frustrated and petulant. She yanked open the refrigerator door as if she were clocking henchmen instead of retrieving a carton of orange juice. And there it was…simmering beneath the surface …a vast red well of anger. She was  _so_  very angry. Angry enough to march over to police headquarters right now and beat O'Leary to a bloody pulp, or at the very least, demand the Superintendent fire him on the spot. But her wrath enveloped so much more than just one lousy cop. Her life…who she was…a consequence of racism, red tape, and budget cuts. Carmen raged against the mundane bureaucracy, the inhumanity of a welfare state that realized- too late for her sake- that it was inhumane to warehouse children in orphanages. Words like  _trauma, disorder_ , and  _institutionalized_  kept circling around in her mind like a broken record. Even if she did manage to find her family, could the damage ever be undone?

Absently, she dropped her glass, which shattered on impact, sending sticky juice flying everywhere. "I just can't do anything right today," Carmen complained to no one in particular. As she began cleaning up the broken glass, one particularly sharp shard penetrated the leather of her gloves. Ruby red droplets mingled with the spilt orange liquid as an all too familiar wave of nausea washed over her.

Carmen never fainted at the sight of blood, especially her own.  _Which can only mean you're cracking up, Sandiego._   _Should have let Wong give you that referral._

She staggered to her bedroom. There was really no sense in fighting it any longer; the thinly veiled sense of panic and dread had hovered around her all day, a gathering storm waiting to break. If she was going to pass out, she would do it in her own bed. And thankfully, this time, there would be no one to see.

Carmen made it halfway over the threshold before the floor exchanged places with the ceiling and she let the dark oblivion carry her away.

* * *

**Postscript** : While Carmen has little appreciation for the talking cure, I hope it is clear that Madame Author does. Just trying to give a sense of how a very proud woman, very much in denial, might feel about pyschotherapy at a time when mental illness carried much more stigma than it does now.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Carmen walked to work the next morning, bleary-eyed and dejected. She had not slept well. One panic attack was an isolated incident, troubling but easily dismissed. Two… two and a half if she was honest with herself…was verging on disorder. The irony of it was so sad, it was nearly comical. Carmen Sandiego- star pupil of a Zen master, considered to be the very definition of grace under pressure- unable to control her own nerves.

As she walked through ACME's Art Deco corridors of burnished brass and green marble, Carmen contemplated her options. With each passing day, San Francisco seemed less like her beloved home, and more like a trap to be escaped. She was plagued by a desire to hop the next plane to anywhere so strong it was almost a physical itch. Was it too late to call the Paris office and tell them she'd take the instructor job after all? Or maybe she just needed a vacation. A bit of backpacking in the thin air of Nepal to raise her flagging spirits. Lounging on the beach in Rio and drinking  _caipirinhas_ until she forgot her own name was equally tempting...

_Or you could just stay right where you are and try to get some help_ , a small, quiet voice inside her prompted. It was not a voice she listened to often.

One thing was for certain, the search for her parents needed to be put on hold, perhaps indefinitely. Carmen had known the investigation might uncover unpleasant truths, but she had not signed up for whatever the hell  _this_  was.

Colleagues gathered around the water cooler waved and called out their good mornings, which she echoed back absently. Ginger-haired Doctor Kaplan was among them; Carmen took care to avoid his gaze. The temptation to finally admit she was not well, had not really ever been well, was too close to the surface. One sympathetic glance and her carefully constructed façade would fold like the house of cards it really was.

Carmen was jolted out of her melancholy reverie by the gruff baritone of the Inspector; "Just the girl I wanted to see this morning. Come on in, got something I think you're gonna like." He clapped her on the back with easy enthusiasm and whisked her through the open door.

Intrigued, Carmen took a seat opposite her boss. "What is it? A new case?"

"Not exactly," he replied, unusually bemused. "Got a call from a Mr. Cornelius Van Vleet- hoity-toity fella, curator of the National Gallery over in DC. Seems they just installed some foolproof multi-million dollar security system there. He's looking for an ex-con to test it out, wants to make sure it was worth all that hard-earned taxpayer money."

Carmen sniffed. In her experience things that claimed to be foolproof usually turned out to be anything but. "Who did you have in mind? I hear Diamond Jane made parole, she's fairly harmless."

"Actually, I recommended you," the older man answered, eyes twinkling.

"Me?" Carmen gasped, incredulous. "But, I'm not a thief, Inspector. I'm a detective."

"And a damn fine one, too," he complimented. "Look, you understand how these crooks think, Carmen. You got a knack for getting inside their heads. You're natural police, you feel it in here," he tapped gently over his heart. "If anyone can find a flaw in this system, it's you."

Carmen let the offer sink in. To be the cause of a crime instead of the solution to one was against everything she had been trained to do as an ACME detective. It made her feel strangely guilty, yet her curiosity was thoroughly, deliciously piqued. "So, Mr. Van Vleet wants to hire me to break into the National Gallery, is that correct?"

"Yup. That's what the man wants. And he's willing to pay handsomely for it, too." He passed her a scrap of yellow legal paper on which was written a tidy sum; nearly half her yearly ACME salary. "And if you do manage to break in, he'll double it."

While the money was certainly  _nice,_  Carmen, hard up for a challenge, probably would have done it for free. "This is so unusual," she blushed, feeling a bit embarrassed. "I guess I'm game."

Her boss gave her a hearty grin. " 'Atta girl. Can't have my best detective cooped up here with nothing to do. You got that caged panther look about you lately, makes a man nervous," he confessed.

The Inspector ran through the rest of the logistics, and told her to contact the office in Dupont Circle as soon as she arrived. Seems like Van Vleet wanted her there ASAP. If she moved very quickly, she could just catch the next flight out of SFO. Carmen dashed back to her office and started tossing files, surveillance equipment and security specs into her briefcase. She fetched the battered suitcase she kept packed and ready to go from where it had been languishing in a dusty corner. The young woman caressed the worn leather and murmured sweetly, "It's been too long, far too long." Carmen checked her watch and felt her heart skip a beat with pleasure. She would make the next flight after all.

In the space of fifteen minutes, her world had turned on a dime.

Carmen was nearly out the door when a breathless and exasperated Chief caught up to her. He seemed to be actually sweating motor oil. "Carmen! Wait! I've had a big break on our case!"

"No time, Chief. I'm headed to Washington. We'll talk about it when I get back, ok?"

"But..but," he panted, clunking down the marble steps after her, "I remembered last night that there's also a Harrods in Buenos Aires. And I called them and they…."

Carmen only half-heard him; the majority of her attention was focused on flagging down an approaching taxi. "SFO, please," she instructed the driver. "The case can wait, Chief. But my plane will not."

The Chief, obviously put out, whined, "What can you possibly be up to in DC that is more important than finding your family?"

Carmen turned to him, sapphire eyes alight with mischief. "I'm off to steal a national treasure," she told her friend enigmatically. Pausing only to plant a chaste kiss on his steel cheek, she climbed in the cab and told the driver to step on it.

It was the last time she saw him before it all went pear-shaped.

* * *

Carmen sat alone in a nearly empty Chinese restaurant and stared intently out the window, as she had for the last five afternoons. The food was mediocre and the decor hadn't been updated since the Eisenhower administration, but Lucky Kitchen's corner table had a prize view of the staff entrance to the National Art Gallery. Carmen had won the proprietress over with her flawless Cantonese and heavy tips, allowing her to sit undisturbed and well…case the joint…as they say.

Unfortunately, ACME's greatest detective was no closer to figuring out how to pull off this caper than when she took the assignment three weeks ago. To begin with, Washington was a terrible place for a heist; between the Capitol police, the Secret Service, the FBI, the military, ACME and a veritable Whitman's sampler of security and museum guards, there were just too many cops per capita. Carmen supposed it explained why she had only been sent here once before- fraud at the IRS. And that had been an inside job, not a robbery.

So confident was he in his security's infallibility, Van Vleet had offered to give her a personal tour and share the system specs with her when she first arrived. But Carmen politely turned him down; to have the job handicapped for her removed half the fun. So, she took the regular museum tour like everyone else and did what any aspiring thief would do; slipped into Van Vleet's office while he was at lunch and retrieved the plans from his desk drawer herself. She was in and out before his secretary returned from the breakroom.  _Child's play_ _._

It had taken some time, but she had gathered all the information she needed. Blueprints of the Gallery and the Metro system obtained quite legally from an engaging afternoon at the National Archives. The details of the security system. But what she didn't have was a way into the building.

The genius of the museum's defenses was that  _all_  the exterior windows and doors were rigged to set off an alarm if tampered with. Said alarm would bring down the full wrath of the city's overabundance of law enforcement. If that alarm went off when she broke in, it wouldn't leave her enough time to escape. By contrast, the building's internal security was remarkably weak. None of the paintings or interior doors had been alarmed. And Van Vleet had foolishly reduced the number of night guards when the new system was installed.

Security cameras she could easily hack by tapping into the feed. Carmen supposed there was a way to disable the alarm system, but she didn't have the skills. Now she understood why crooks preferred to work in gangs; if she were a real thief instead of just pretending to be one, she'd just hire some brilliant technological genius to do it for her. Unfortunately, collaboration was not on the table for this endeavor.

Despite these myriad obstacles, Carmen was nowhere near ready to admit defeat. Unlike the aborted search for her parents, this did not feel like a fool's errand. There was a way into this museum, she could feel it in her bones. "Natural police," the Inspector had called her. Carmen wondered if the mirror of that statement wasn't also true. What was it Maelstrom had called her? "A thief at heart." Well, maybe she was.

Carmen sighed and picked at her now cold lo mein. If she couldn't cause machine error, she'd have to rely on human error. Every day this week she had watched the museum staff depart for the night through the side entrance. There was only one guard stationed there and it was always the same balding, middle-aged man. Right now he was flirting with a pretty blonde assistant curator on the nation's dime. The cleaning crew arrived precisely at 6:25 p.m., all women, mostly African-American. The guard only gave their badges a cursory examination before waving them through. And then he started chatting up the blonde again, picking right up where he left off.  _Typical,_ the would-be thief thought to herself.  _Reminds me of that pendejo_   _O'Leary_ …..

Carmen's ruby lips broke into a broad smile and she laughed out loud, the first good laugh she'd had in months. People saw but they did not observe. She knew how she was going to break into the Gallery. And she had just the painting in mind.

* * *

**Author's Note:** "Natural police" is not my phrase, it's an expression used on HBO's  _The Wire_. Which if you haven't seen, go out and watch it  _now_  and then write me some WOEICS/Wire crossover fic. Pretty please?


	7. Chapter 7

Night had fallen over the city. Tourists had returned to their hotels and the government workers to their homes in the suburbs. Outside the museum, monuments glowed an eerie white against a midnight blue sky. In the second floor ladies' room of the National Art Gallery, Carmen Sandiego exchanged the shapeless blue gown of a cleaning lady for the close fitting turtleneck and gloves of a cat burglar. Not really sure of what one wore to pull off a robbery, she had finally decided on basic black, cliché though it was.

Her ruse for gaining access to the Gallery had gone even better than expected. Carmen had shown up two or three minutes after the real cleaning crew had already entered the building. After a few obsequious "por favor Señors" with a little "no habla anglais" thrown in for good measure, the guard had let her in without so much as glance at her ID. Which was almost a pity, because she really spent a lot of time forging her badge to get it just right. While Carmen couldn't travel back in time to undo the damage racism had done to her life, she certainly wouldn't hesitate to use it to her favor in the present.

The last of the cleaning ladies had departed over an hour ago. And the fading shuffle of shoe leather on stone told her the guard had just moved on to the third floor. With a click of a button, a remote antenna installed across the street began broadcasting last night's surveillance footage. The second floor was hers for the next thirty minutes.

Carmen glanced in the bathroom mirror before walking out the door. Her reflection looked more mature, her posture taller, than she had ever remembered. Her cheeks were pale, but her blue eyes glittered like two cut gems, diamond-hard. She placed a black gloved hand on the door but hesitated to push it open. Even though she had been hired to do this, it still felt like the testing of uncharted waters, sailing off the edges of the map. And in that moment, she didn't know if she feared success or failure more.

_She who hesitates is lost….._

Something compelled her to leave the safety of her hiding place. The same part of her psyche that drove her to circle the globe chasing criminals and to seek out trouble when it didn't come looking for her. She took one cautious step, then another- expecting to hear alarms, bells, sirens, to be tackled to the floor by burly men. But….no. Silent as the proverbial grave.

Carmen glided along the empty hallways and exhibit rooms with a ghostly grace. Her target, a work by modernist Mark Rothko, was not far off, but she wanted to take her time. The irony alone was a dish worth savoring. She who had grown up with nothing now had the treasures of a nation at her fingertips. The National Art Gallery, her own personal jewel house.

All too soon, she was standing in front of the Rothko. It was hardly the Gallery's showpiece or even the artist's most famous painting. But when she saw it on the museum tour, its rectangles of reddish violet and deep crimson had called to her. There was something about it that spoke to her, something hopeful. And she knew she had to have it. One slight clip of wire and the priceless painting was hers. The simple action filled her with an exquisite rush that she was altogether unprepared for.

It was glorious.

It was intoxicating.

And most of all, it was addictive.

Carmen looked at Rothko's red and nearly felt the painting look into her. Abstract expressionism, she knew, was designed to provoke intense emotion in the viewer; some critics said feelings of rebellion and even nihilism.  _Red_ …the color of anger, love, power...yet she felt nothing so pedestrian. Holding the stolen painting in her arms, sheltered in its womb-like embrace, Carmen experienced something that could only be described as second birth.

The art of the theft made her soul catch fire. And she fled the museum, not like a thief in the night, but with the miraculous beauty of a phoenix rising from the flames.

 


	8. Chapter 8

"San Francisco has only one drawback. 'Tis hard to leave."

- _Rudyard Kipling_

* * *

It was a long flight back to San Francisco.

Fortunately for Carmen, the silence and anonymity of the red-eye provided valuable solitude in which to think. A full twenty-four hours had elapsed since her successful break-in at the National Gallery and she still felt wrapped in a blissful, almost post-coital haze. Her heavy heart defied gravity, turned cartwheels, danced on air. Returning the Rothko to a much humbled Director Van Vleet had not grounded her in the slightest. It would seem the loot had little power over her. It was the theft itself that mattered.

For the first time in her life, the young woman asked to be paid in unmarked bills. She suspected it would not be the last.

For months Carmen had felt restless, bored, so filled with anger and sadness she hardly recognized herself. And now, one night's larceny had rendered her better than well. While breaking into the museum was a thrill unlike any other, it went deeper than that. The weeks of planning and puzzling had honed her mind back to its familiar razor-sharp edge. Matching wits against a formidable foe kept her personal demons at bay. The sense of tranquil power she had achieved was not a sensation she would relinquish lightly.

It would hurt to leave, she knew. It would hurt her, but she would hurt others more.

But truthfully, Carmen did not like what awaited her if she stayed. She was tired of tacking between rage and despair, dithering about Hamlet-like and angst-ridden. Not to mention the ever-present threat of passing out-  _that_  she could not abide. What were her options? Go cry it out on some analyst's couch twice a week for the next five years? Such treatment promised personal sacrifice without any guarantee of cure. However immoral  _this_  was, there was no denying its efficacy. Crime- as a remedy for what ailed her- paid.

She could not, would not stay. Stay and live in the shadow of her past, the bright red pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge a constant reminder of her greatest failure and deepest secret. Carmen laughed bitterly to herself; Suhara had been both right and wrong about her. She was abandoning the search for her parents because she didn't want to know. But it was not failure or even the truth that she feared most….it was disappointment.

Her life she would gamble a hundred thousand times. Her heart she would not.

"Passengers, this is your Captain speaking," a folksy male voice broke over the intercom. "We are now beginning our descent into San Francisco International Airport. We will be arriving at Terminal C, Gate 4. The forecast calls for sunny skies and a high of 70 degrees…"

Carmen looked out the window and caught a glimpse of rosy dawn breaking over the waters of San Francisco Bay. It was arrival, but it was departure, too.

* * *

The hallowed halls of the ACME Detective Agency were blessedly deserted when Carmen arrived at 7 am sharp. The Agency ran with a skeleton crew during the night, but the majority of the agents and staff wouldn't show up for at least another hour or so. The young woman briskly navigated the building on auto-pilot, as if pausing for even the briefest of seconds would derail her plan entirely.

When she finally made it undetected to the familiar safety of her office, Carmen, acting on instinct, retrieved a cache of fake driver's licenses and passports from her desk drawer. Leftovers from old undercover operations, they weren't much but they would give her somewhat of a head start until she could get new ones made.

What next? Money, she needed money if this was going to work. And tools and equipment. ACME required agents to sign out currency and gadgets from the equipment locker. Right now, it would be locked, but Carmen had a key. The Inspector had given her one years ago because who was more trustworthy than the agency's star detective? Carmen frowned and felt sick with guilt. Could she really bring herself to steal from those who trusted her?

_If you can't do this, honey, better quit right now._

The darkly sarcastic voice within her was right. If she was going to be a traitor, best to get it over with. Carmen slipped into the equipment room, opened the safe and filled her briefcase with a patchwork quilt of pounds, yen, francs, pesos, and rubles. She found a duffle bag and loaded it with all the equipment she could carry without looking terribly suspicious. Let no one accuse her of doing things by half measures.  _There_.

The soon to be former detective returned to her office for a last look. The Detective of the Year Awards, the Certificates of Appreciation, she would leave behind- such baggage would only weigh her down. She caved in to sentiment and plucked two photographs from the wall- one of her with Suhara on their first case, and a more recent snapshot with the Chief. She went to her desk, picked up a pen, and briefly tried to compose a note…telling them not to worry, that she was thankful, that what she did was not their fault. But in that moment all her clever words deserted her; a blank page and an uncapped pen were her only testimony.

There was a part of her, a hardened, bitter part of her, that felt it was somehow appropriate. There were questions in her life that would always remain unanswered, parts of her past that would be forever dark to her. Let others have a taste of what it meant to live everyday in the shadow of a mystery. And besides, in Carmen's mind the answers were all there, painfully obvious to anyone who really cared to look. If her colleagues couldn't figure out why she left, they had no business calling themselves detectives.

_Suhara and the Chief will know why_. The ones her departure…her betrayal…would hurt the most were an old man and a robot. Carmen tried to brush it off. Suhara, she told herself, would find bright new agents to train, and they would soon erase the memory of one good girl gone bad. The Chief…well, his feelings for her were nothing but a collection of zeroes and ones rattling around on pressed silicon. A few clicks of the keyboard and it would be as if she had never existed. Carmen was tempted to enter the computer room and reprogram him herself, out of mercy…but couldn't bring herself to do it. Sentimental cruelty, that.

In her final act as an ACME detective, Carmen removed her badge and left it on a stack of old files. Her image stared back at her, mocking and defiant, hastening her exit.

She had nearly made it out ACME's little used side entrance when a soft voice stopped her in her tracks. "Carmen?"

She slowly turned and came face to face with the man she had been avoiding for weeks, David Kaplan.  _Dammit. Dammit. And, oh yes, dammit._ Carmen let out a sigh and did her best to exude casual and quotidian, as if this were just another day at the office and not a robbery in progress. "Doctor Kaplan. Good morning. What brings you in so early?"

He scratched his red beard. "I could say the same to you. My daughter's got a karate match this afternoon, I was hoping to take a half day." He gestured toward her bags. "Going somewhere?"

"Returning. Just got off the red eye from DC," she replied laconically.

"Oh yes, we heard about your successful break-in. Is there no end to your talents?" He saluted her with his coffee mug, then turned serious. When he spoke, his tone was soft and protective, the older brother she had never had. "Listen, Carmen, the Chief told me you were looking for your parents. I think that's great. And for whatever its worth, if you want someone to talk to, I'm here." Carmen said nothing, her face impassive. Her silence only seemed to encourage him more. "I realize my specialty is criminal psychology and not talk therapy, but…"

"Oh, you might be more suited than you realize," Carmen muttered under her breath.

"Huh?"

"Never mind. I'm afraid you're a day late and a dollar short, Doctor. I  _was_  looking for my parents, but now…I have other projects to occupy my time," she told him, coldly and decisively.

Dr. Kaplan's blue eyes registered suspicion. "I've never known you to back down from a challenge."

"There's a first time for everything."

"Are sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine, Doctor. Better than well." Her voice held a newfound authority that surprised them both with its edge. The man's concern was touching, but terribly inconvenient. Time for a little verbal misdirection. "How are your kids?" A devoted father, Kaplan was obsessed with his son and daughter…what were their names again?  _Iris and Jack?_   _No_.

"Ivy and Zack?" His face brightened and he immediately reached for his wallet, pulling out well handled photographs. "Oh, they're growing up so fast.  _Too_  fast." He pointed toward a blond haired toddler, "Zack, he's just so smart. Molly found him counting to ten in Hebrew the other day. I don't know where he gets it from. Definitely not my side of the family. And Ivy, so independent, so strong," he showed her a picture of a red-headed girl, looking fierce in her karate uniform despite missing her two front teeth. Kaplan beamed, "You know she just adores you. Always pesters me when I come home, asking what the great detective Carmen Sandiego is up to. You're kind of her role model."

_Not for much longer_. Carmen felt the blood drain from her face, but forced herself to smile. "I don't know what to say." She honestly didn't. "I'd better be going. I need to get some things at my apartment."

"All right then. See you around?"

She shook her head. "No. I really don't think you will." The good doctor blinked, fazed by her serious reply to his casual question.

As she swept through the door, Carmen tipped her hat and spoke an oddly prescient farewell; "Say hi to your kids for me."

FINIS

 


End file.
